


32 Down the Rabbit Hole

by Arwyn



Category: due South
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canadian Shack, Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Inspired by Music, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Call of the Wild, no limbs were lost in the construction of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwyn/pseuds/Arwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Ray wandered out to the living room, put the tape in the stereo, really not knowing what to expect, but -- bagpipes? Man, he knew Fraser had some weird tastes in music, but that was just </em>not<em> something he'd needed to know.</em></p><p>
  <em>He was about to hit eject -- maybe the other side was better -- when the first lyrics were belted out (something in his memory went ping!, but he'd chase it later), and the whole thing turned into some seriously mediocre dude rock.</em>
</p><p><em>When the lead singer started, Ray stared at the stereo. That was -- that </em>could not be<em> --</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	32 Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to HereEatThisKitten for beta, as always, as well as for responding to "tell me which one to work on!" with an answer that actually, surprisingly, worked for me.
> 
> Dedicated to our queen, [Deputychairman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Deputychairman/pseuds/Deputychairman), for modeling "simultaneously embarrassed and turned on by Paul Gross" both well and frequently. My Ray would be so much lesser without your inspiration, Deputy.

Ray pulled the cassette from a box Quinn handed them at their housewarming (warm, hah! like the pile of logs Fraser called their house was ever gonna get _warm_ ). "A few things the pup left at my place, years ago. I figured he'd want them back, now that he has a place to call home. And a real bed."

Ray examined the cassette (all it said was "32" on one side, "Ride" on the other), so he wouldn't be seen blushing -- though by Quinn's chuckle it worked about as well as most of his plans -- and put it in his pocket to put away later.

He forgot about it, of course, but when the guests were all gone, the dogs dealt with, the wood for the night stacked high (he'd get used to the work that went into life in a cabin someday, but in the meantime it surprised him every time, and surprised him how much he didn't mind), Fraser went to pull him close, only to pull back, both of them startled when he grabbed the hard plastic.

"Ray, what on earth -- oh."

"Quinn brought it. Said it was yours."

"Ah."

One of Fraser's hands was still on Ray's ass, but Ray had the feeling it might as well be on Mars for all Fraser was paying attention. He'd frozen, staring at the cassette with the weirdest look on his face, like he'd… well, Ray'd say like he'd seen a ghost, but he was pretty sure Fraser had seen ghosts, and he'd only ever looked annoyed about it.

Ray waited another eternity -- at least three or four seconds -- trying not to twitch too badly, before blurting, "What is it? I mean, it's a tape, right, it's not, like, a secret Mountie bomb or nothing? So, uh, what's on it?"

When Fraser murmured, "Nothing important," and put the cassette in his own pocket, Ray knew he was lying, but when Fraser's attention came back to him, when his other hand went back where it had been headed, and Fraser pulled him tight for one of his Benton Exclusives (no one else kissed like that, no one else had that combination of focus and oral fixation and that unbefuckinglievably clever tongue), Ray figured maybe it didn't matter _right_ then.

***

He didn't forget about it, though.

(Well, okay, he did, but he forgot about most things, it doesn't mean he _forgot_ forgot, and when he found the cassette tucked away in the back of Fraser's sock, underwear, and suspenders drawer -- he wasn't snooping, it wasn't snooping when it was, Fraser kept insisting, his cabin, too, and he was _sure_ Fraser'd stolen Ray's last pack of gum, he was _sure_ he'd had one left, no matter Fraser kept saying he must've miscounted -- the curiosity all came back.)

He wandered out to the living room, put the tape in the stereo (oh shit, right, he'd opened the last one during the bonspiel -- damn, he hated when Fraser was right, even if he was right ‘cause his national sport sucked and Ray'd blocked it all out, especially after the Tuk team got shoved out of the house, by _Montreal_ , it was _humiliating_ ), really not knowing what to expect, but -- bagpipes? Man, he knew Fraser had some weird tastes in music, but that was just _not_ something he'd needed to know.

Ray was about to hit eject -- maybe the other side was better -- when the first lyrics were belted out (something in his memory went ping!, but he'd chase it later), and the whole thing turned into some seriously mediocre dude rock.

When the lead singer started, Ray stared at the stereo. That was -- that _could not be_ \-- he scrambled for the stop, and he'd never been more grateful for silence.

By the time Fraser got home that night (Ray gave himself about three, four more weeks before he burned the place down if he didn't find work, but Fraser wasn't wrong about how much went into keeping the cabin up, so it's not like he was eating bonbons all day), Ray'd listened to both sides about twenty times (maybe less, things got a little sketchy in the midafternoon, until the dogs' whining and yipping reminded him no one had gotten lunch yet), and decided he'd gone crazy ahead of schedule, or maybe Fraser'd gone crazy all those years ago, or maybe the world was crazy, or maybe there was no world, because if that was -- if Fraser had -- then _nothing_ made sense.

Ray heard Fraser's stomp-stomp-brush-brush outside, getting the snow off his boots before coming in. He heard the door open, the rustle that was Fraser anally ("Neatly, Ray.") hanging his outer coat just-so. He heard the pause as Fraser turned and saw him, but he knew -- yup, there he was, Ray wasn't bleeding or in danger of a bullet, so Fraser went back to schucking his outer boots, checking the fire, the fuel. He flipped a mental coin: would Fraser get a drink of water first, or -- yeah, there was the water, why deviate from routine when you can keep it _and_ buy an extra twenty seconds to think?

Fraser's socked feet halted at the entry to the livingroom proper. Ray would bet anything he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at Ray staring at the stereo. He'd be sure Ray would break first, but he was wrong this time, wronger than wrong. The world was broken, nothing made sense anymore, and Ray waited, still, calm, zen.

Finally, Fraser cleared his throat. "Ray…?"

Ray reached forward, and pressed play. The bagpipes. The chorus. The voice.

Fraser's voice, here, in the world-that-probably-wasn't-but-was-definitely-wrong: "Oh dear. Have you--?"

"Both sides."

"Ah. That's… unfortunate."

"Fraser."

"Yeah?"

"Fraser."

"...what?"

"Fraser."

"For God's sake, Ray, what?!"

Fraser's hand appeared in front of him, blocking off the white-on-black plastic-boxed wires that housed the wrongness, and snapped the stop button.

Ray looked up. Fraser had one arm braced on the wall, half bent over, eyes trained on Ray. Exasperation, embarrassment, some concern ( _that's sweet, Ben, but where were you when the world went weird and everything stopped making sense? off doing Mountie things, real world things, as though this hadn't changed all that_ ). Ray blinked.

"That's… that's…" Ray raised his hand to point, and Fraser, probably figuring Ray would press play again (not in this lifetime, buddy, but what is life anymore?), knocked it down. "That's _you_."

"Well…" Fraser looked down, scratched his eyebrow. "In a manner of speaking, er, yes."

"Fraser."

" _What_ , Ray?"

"...what the _hell_?"

"It's, well, a rather long and entirely unflattering story, which I'd rather not relate, but if you insist, as I imagine you will -- are you quite all right, Ray?"

"I think I ate the dogs' food." Fraser's brows shot up. "Not, uh, not all of it. But they were hungry, I'd kinda forgotten lunch, and it was, uh… it was there, I think I forgot we weren't on the trail and it was a weird can of stew, or, uh…"

"Did you eat anything else today? Or perhaps I should ask, anyone?"

"Fraser," Ray kept his eyes fixed on Fraser's -- no way was he letting the freak off the hook that easily -- and pointed at the stereo again, "that is _you_ , singing, singing… _that_ , so don't you dare make fun of my current psychological state, you're lucky I'm not eating you at this point, buddy."

Fraser smirked, and Ray threw both his hands up. "Not like that -- Christ, he sings terrible rock--"

"I did some of the guitar parts, too."

"--he _plays_ terrible white dude rock, he makes innuendo: who the hell are you and where's Benton Fraser??"

"Alas, you've found me out. How about I tell you all about the body switch over dinner?"

"And a beer? I need beer. Or vodka."

Fraser reached out, and Ray could never resist him when he held Ray's eyes like that, crinkled at the corners, hand steady and certain Ray would take it. (He did, and let Fraser pull him to standing.) "Ah. About that..."

***

Turns out, some of Fraser's classmates at depot had learned he played, he sang, he read music. ("What _didn't_ you do?" Ray asked. "Many things," came the answer, desert-dry. "At least, not then.") And they got him drunk. ("You don't drink!" "No, Ray, I don't. Not anymore." "...huh.") And -- Ray's fuzzy on this part, but he gathers maybe Fraser is, too -- got him into a recording studio.

And thus started the most persistent campaign of Ray's life. He was more dedicated to this than he had been to the Brand New Red Bicycle cause when he was twelve. (He'd been even more hyper and unfocused back then, much as Fraser looked disbelieving when he told him.) He cared more than he had with Stella about the kid thing, if only because he was allowed to care more, because he knew Fraser wouldn't freeze him out of their bed, even if Fraser would go outside and freeze himself half to death just to get away from Ray's pestering ("I assure you, I wasn't in any danger of freezing." "You were cold when you came in! You! Benton Fraser! You. Felt. Cold! That'd be dead in anyone else!" "Yes, well. You warmed me up after." "Damn right I did, I'm not risking any of your --" "Ray!" "--skills, I can't make it out here by myself. Heh, what'd you think I was gonna say?").

It went something like this:

"Play it for me, Fraser."

"No."

And:

"Hey Fraser, what was the name of the ghost ship?"

A sigh. "For the seventeenth time, it's the Robert MacKenzie, Ray."

"Oh right. Hey, you know what helps me remember these things? Music."

"Since it's neither a matter of life and death nor a subject likely to come up on your citizenship exam, I think you can do without retaining this particular piece of information."

"Aw c'mon, Fraser, play--"

"No."

Only once did Ray try the following tactic:

"Here, I made some eggnog."

"Oh, delightful -- augh, how much brandy did you put in this?"

"Uhhhh… just, uh, a dollop? A smidge? Uh. Mrs Heirsch says brandy is necessary for the flavor!"

"Ray, I'm not getting drunk, and I remind you that nonconsensual inebriation is, in Kugaaruk, quite illegal."

"Well technically we're not _in_ Kugaaruk, so --"

"Ray!"

He'd had to apologize for that one for a few days before Fraser lost the stick up his butt. (Ray could think of better uses for both stick and, uh, yeah.) Anyway, he promised he wouldn't try anything so underhanded again, and he meant it.

He did try it in bed, a couple times: once, he got Fraser all hot and bothered and _begging_ for it (and Jesus, that sight alone was worth all the winters and chopping firewood and four hour trips to town just for a goddamn pizza), and whispered, voice hard, hands leaning on Fraser's wrists, hips hovering over Fraser's belly, "Sing it." Fraser had blinked twice, before his brows shot up. " _Really_ , Ray." It hadn't worked, but after Fraser stopped laughing at him -- not laughing laughing, Fraser laughing, bitchy and sarcastic and dry and annoying and so fucking glorious, Ray loved him so goddamn much -- he got Ray face-down on the bed and panted in his ear, "You'll have -- to try better -- than that." and they both came their brains out their dicks, so Ray called it a draw.

The other time, Fraser had Ray tied up, and asked what he wanted, and Ray scraped together enough brain cells to say it (the rest of them were screaming "are you crazy?? ask for his ass, ask for his belt, ask to come, NOT THE SONG!"), at which point Fraser spent half an hour praising and rewarding him for his tenacity (not with the song, the tenacious part pointed out, but it got shouted down by the rest of him, which loved every damn thing Fraser did instead), and in the end that exchange joined their rotation, and overall, Ray considered it at least a minor success.

And so it became a game, another thing they did to mess with each other, play with each other, and it probably would have stayed that way, if Two Shoe McGraw hadn't tried to run his illegal bear-catching operation outside town.

***

(What Ray does not know: Fraser sings in the hospital. There's so much he can do, but so damn little he can do here, and there are endless, interminable hours of nothing. So he sings. Ride Forever, of course. The Stan Rogers repertoire. Half remembered lullabies, too-familiar ABBA, everything Ray has ever played on the stereo for him. He sings everything, everything but that, because Ray isn't waking up, and he isn't waking up, but he has to, _he has to_.)

***

Ray was in the hospital in Yellowknife for a month before they let him fly back to Kugaaruk.

Even that took some finagling. First he had to convince Fraser that if they didn't get him out of there, he'd check himself out and hitch the first truck that'd take a blow job as fare. Then Fraser needed to convince the medical team of the quality of care he'd receive up north. Fraser got every single one of the medical-types in town to call the hospital and give a complete affidavit of their experience and commitment to Ray's case. One massage therapist, one occupational therapist (retired), one MD (generalist), one shaman (Tlingit), two midwives, and three former army medics later, and the lead doc agreed as long as Fraser got the calls to stop.

Convincing the docs that Ray'd get adequate care at home was easier: Fraser had been at the hospital 23 hours a day, every day. (He took an hour's constitutional during Ray's drug-induced naps and, later, after Ray kicked him out, the daily OT sessions; getting them to get him a rollaway for the room happened before Ray woke up somewhere around day four, but he gathered from the nurses that Fraser had just put a bedroll down in his room and very, very politely refused to move. Eventually, they brought him a cot, and pretended like it was their idea.) By this point, Fraser knew Ray's medicines, bandage change routine, treatment schedule, and prognosis better than any of the nurses.

Eventually, three days after Ray brought it up with Fraser (and only that long ‘cause they'd had to wait for the plane; Fraser looked like he wanted to commandeer one himself, but Ray promised he could hold on for one more day, and Fraser subsided), he was home.

***

Ray let Fraser lower him onto the couch, raise his leg up and get it as pillow-comfy as he could; he really was lucky to still have it, as weird a thought as that was. When he was getting signed out and Fraser was arguing (Mountie-polite, and if Ray was in less pain he'd entertain himself guessing how long until Fraser got what he wanted and how long after until the other person figured it out), he flipped through his chart, and there it was: "Amputation recommended. Pt's designated refused." Ray still wasn't sure how he felt about that -- happy to have his leg, obviously, but it hadn't sunk in until then how close he'd come to not making it at all, and if they hadn't been on the way out (if he hadn't had to pester Fraser so hard to make it happen), he might've been okay staying in the hospital just a bit longer.

Too late now, though.

"Is there anything else I can get you? Your next dose of antibiotics isn't for another fourteen minutes; forty four until your painkillers, I'm afraid."

Ray's answering, "I'm good," might've worked better if he hadn't sounded like a slipped clutch.

"Water, then."

Ray let his head fall back, let his eyes close. He'd always hated the last legs ( _legs_ , fuck) of the trip to the cabin, enough that he used it as the excuse, at first, to go back to Chicago less and less, to stay here (with Fraser) longer and longer. His dick twitched at the memory of the night Fraser finally caught on that he'd rather just stay altogether, and he jerked (ow!) when Fraser's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Ray. Here. You can just sip it, you don't have to -- oh." Ray handed Fraser the empty glass, who -- wow, he must still be worried -- put it down on the coffee table instead of taking it back to the kitchen.

Ray's eyes followed as Fraser sat next to the glass, elbows on knees, thumb to itchy eyebrows. They'd made it home, he'd convinced Ray just as well as the docs he knew what he was doing for Ray's recoup and rehab, so what was he nervous about now?

Waiting had gotten easier, between the pain and the meds.

Finally, Fraser cleared his throat. "I've… well, I've planned something of a welcome home. Nothing too strenuous, of course," Ray's twitchy dick didn't like that _of course_ , but he could be patient, "and, frankly, I'm… well, it's not that I'm unsure… that is, I think you'll like -- but on the other hand, perhaps we should--"

"Fraser, just give it to me."

"Give it to you, Ray?" And oh yeah, there was the glint he'd missed so much, that damn eye crinkle that no one else saw but was like a red flag to Ray. He smirked and let his good leg fall open a bit more, and loved the heat that filled Fraser's face. "Ah. Well, not… perhaps you'll think differently after -- I'll be right back."

Well, that wasn't exactly what Ray was expecting. Not that he'd been sure the flirting would work (hoping, sure, can't blame a guy for hoping), but he'd thought --

Fraser came back in with a guitar case. A new one, too thin by half, and a -- was that an amp?

"I asked Mattie to make sure it was tuned when she brought it this morning, but it'll still take…"

Ray blinked, as Fraser quickly tweaked the knobs to make the strings sound just like they had before, but he guessed by Fraser's nod it'd gotten better, somehow. Fraser plugged the guitar in (an _amp_? what was _in_ those pills?), stood up Mountie-tall, cleared his throat, and struck a chord.

It was…

He was playing…

Ray couldn't have pulled his eyes away from Fraser if the whole Dallas cheer squad _and_ team stripped down in their living room. He stared, at first in some sort of horror as Fraser rocked -- not, like, musically, but side to side, block of wood in a steady and soulless wind. But soon Fraser, who hadn't made eye contact with Ray since he came back with a strange guitar (and an _amp!_ ), was, in a manner of sorts, kind of, horribly, _rocking out_. Swinging the guitar and shaking his head in time to the beat, damn near bouncing on his feet, it was the most mortifying thing Ray had ever seen in his _life_ , and by the time Fraser belted out the last, enthusiastic "hunh!" Ray was throbbing in his pants (not just his leg, forget his leg, damn his leg, he wanted-- he wanted--). He'd heard Fraser sing before, wistful, aching, heartbreaking songs, terrifyingly cheery sea shanties about death and blood and more death, overly earnest soulful country ballads, but he'd never seen Fraser so _lost_ in what he was singing before.

Finally, the last chord died away, and Fraser came back, and all his awkward self-consciousness came back with him. He dropped the arm that had been striking and flicking the strings so damn fast, and looked up, and Ray stared, and stared. Fraser shifted on his feet -- all wood again -- and bent his head to scratch his eyebrow, and Ray stared.

Fraser started unplugging the guitar, taking off the strap. "I'm sorry, I know it's not -- well, I just thought. That, perhaps… It's just, you've asked for it for so long, and when you -- when I got the only thing I wanted, and you woke up, I just thought… But I understand if it's not something you --"

"Fraser."

Fraser looked up, and Ray fell into those damn earnest, bastard blue eyes _again_. "Yes, Ray?"

"If you don't get the hell over here _right now_ , I will get the hell off this couch and _hop_ to you."

Then Fraser was over him, who knows what he'd done with the guitar, Ray didn't care, he just grabbed Fraser's flannel shirt and pulled him close and kissed him, and _kissed him_ , and Fraser kissed him back, desperate, anxious, sloppy, and Ray couldn't get _enough_ , this man who could sing like a boy band and kiss like a groupie but couldn't fucking dance to save his _life_ , he would _never_ get enough.

He couldn't get enough air, eventually, and their mouths pulled apart, breath flowing hot against each other's lips, foreheads pressed hard. "That was the most embarrassing thing I have ever seen, and the hottest thing I have ever seen, _never_ do that again, but I need you to blow me right n--unh!"

His ears were still ringing and his leg was still throbbing and the image of Fraser bobbing and bopping like a deranged lemur was _never_ leaving his eyes, but Ray had four limbs, a cabin in Canada, and the most beautiful head of dark hair in his lap giving the most enthusiastic blowjob he'd ever gotten, and yeah, he'd made it home after all.


End file.
